


ode to a dream

by orphan_account



Series: in poetry you are bound to say something that everybody knows already in words that nobody can understand [4]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Original Work
Genre: F/F, Gay, Love Poems, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-15
Updated: 2019-03-15
Packaged: 2019-11-18 05:38:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18114386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Excerpt:"You are only a tall and lithe and slender sliverin that universe,pirouetting around the moons of Jupiter."This is a poem for a person in real life who will never actually read it, but I posted it under Harry Potter as well. (I've just realized how personal this poem is, so I might take it down later.)





	ode to a dream

And O! 

Darling,  
although I never called you that,  
I never stared at your face  
as long as I would have liked. 

But to really tell the truth,  
that would be a few epochs. 

An epoch is not actually that long  
if you think of it–  
the universe is more than thirteen billion years old. 

You are only a tall and lithe and slender sliver  
in that universe,  
pirouetting around the moons of Jupiter.

Or so I tell myself  
as you speak and I smell jasmine,  
the jasmine from my grandmother’s small garden.

It is an enveloping scent.

Nor did I tell you the many birds  
whose myriad liquid songs–  
hunting and fighting and mating and serenading songs–  
which your voice was akin to  
(in my own biased mind)  
or the precious stones I mined for  
in your velvety brownish golden witch-hazel eyes.

But I did say other words.

Although you may not have recognized them,  
they were words of you–  
of the beauty that you cannot see  
or the opaline droplets of your tears. 

I would collect those tears  
and bead them into a necklace;  
I would throw them  
into this widening spherical paper shell of a sky,  
and they would turn into hot blue stars,  
or even an entire spiral galaxy  
with the arms barred  
and strong around your shoulders,  
holding you up so you would not cry anymore.

Perhaps that is not a romantic image.

Perhaps you would prefer me to compare you to something beautiful–  
and I can do that too. 

Your hair is like many long sun-soaked creeks in a forest,  
a forest whose ever-multiplying trees twist into a labyrinth  
in which I could traipse forever,  
be lost forever  
if I would be lost with you in some small way. 

And these creeks lead back  
to the clear northern source above your forehead,  
which itself is forever wrinkled  
with stress or joy or desperation,  
creased and furrowed  
like a freshly-planted field  
or an imperfectly made bed,  
holding the sweet sowed rows,  
the soft linen of your eyebrows. 

When your eyebrows slant  
I can almost see the crops emerging,  
the girl waking up  
and stretching her long pale arms over her head.

Never change your eyebrows. 

To pluck them would be  
to deny the world of vital nutrients,  
to deny the world of sleep.

Underneath are your eyes,  
and I cannot describe your eyes  
without speaking of their many moods–  
the quintillion different sparkling moods  
I have seen them in,  
moods as scintillating and tantalizing  
as the sun’s light up too close–  
so I will not attempt to speak of your eyes. 

Your nose is like a tall white mountain;  
underneath tired pilgrims can rest in its shade. 

You once said that you hated your nose. 

Do you remember that? 

And I muttered something about you being pretty,  
only I called you “not ugly,”  
and that made you smile,  
all glimmering sharp white teeth. 

You spoke,  
and I could listen to you speak  
and count your words  
and write a speech for you. 

I could campaign with you  
and when you remembered me,  
you would smile  
and I would be the one making you laugh. 

But I digress. 

Around your nose and mouth,  
your cheeks hold not roses,  
which are somewhat weak and cowardly,  
but dull-glittering uncut rubies,  
glistering in the sharp unpolished diamond shelves of your cheekbones. 

I could scale those cheekbones,  
fall down and die horribly  
in terrible convulsive motions,  
like an earthquake possessing a girl. 

I could jump off them  
and break my neck,  
and it would still be worth it,  
to touch you in some way. 

And then I see your mouth,  
which reminds me of the ocean,  
forever giving and taking,  
forever coming and receding,  
forever dancing and unpredictable. 

The ocean,  
that which tears me apart daily,  
and still brings me home.


End file.
